Rock 'N' Roll Suicide
by Incogneat-o
Summary: That was the woman he fell in love with. This was the woman he was not so sure about. Sweenett.
1. Rock 'N' Roll Suicide

**A/N: Hey everybody! New Sweeney Todd story . . . but don't worry! I'm still continuing my other Sweenett (and yes, this is a Sweenett). I just had this idea in my head and it would not go away. Please enjoy! :D**

_London, December, 1983_

_Oh no love! youre not alone_

_You're watching yourself but you're too unfair  
You got your head all tangled up but if I could only  
Make you care_

_~ Rock 'N' Roll Suicide, David Bowie  
_

The bar was dimly lit, and smoke was billowing all around him. His mind was hazy with drink, but he could still make out the figure standing on what looked like a sorry excuse for a stage. It was a slightly raised wooden platform, about seven feet across and five feet back. But the figure, the woman, was of slight proportions, so she was quite able to perform as regularly as she could've on a real stage. The hard, rough voice that emanated from her throat was very different than it had been a while ago, and the man was not sure if he liked the change or not. He remembered when her voice was melodic, when it soared above the audience but into their souls. When it seemed like it held all the answers to the world. Now it only seemed as if its purpose was to make everyone in the bar leave. That is, if anyone was even paying attention to her.

He sipped his drink casually and allowed himself a small smile in satisfaction as the warm liquid made its way to his belly. The woman on stage was still singing like a strangled cat, the two men behind her playing guitars were still looking bored. They strummed out their power chords with about as much enthusiasm as a little boy whose mother just signed him up for ballet lessons. He would have felt sorry for her, if he had not been too busy growing nostalgic over her features.

Her hair was short and straightened, coming to a perfect angle along her jaw line. The color was somewhere between red and brown. She had switched her hair color so many times in her lifetime he could no longer differentiate between the two. He remembered when her hair had been long and curly: a messy mane. Her big brown eyes were hid behind heavily made-up eyelids, her long dark lashes brushing against her cheeks. When she lifted her lids, she revealed two empty chocolate colored eyes that looked as if she were constantly in a daydream. Those eyes used to be wild. They used to be passionate, and full of life. They used to be full of raw emotion, of powerful hunger . . .

She wore a black blouse that hugged her every feature. She wore a skirt, that probably had once been a pretty white color, but was now smudged with dirt and looked like an ugly grey. She wore no accessories, except a simple black choker. Her boots reached up to her knees, and she was wearing no tights. Automatically an image of a past time glazed over the man's vision. The same woman, dressed in bright red, orange, and practically any other color you could imagine that would hurt the eyes. She used to wear so many bracelets that when she walked, she could pass off as a musical instrument herself.

That was the woman he fell in love with. This was the woman he was not so sure about.

An old man who was sitting next to him saw him staring at the woman. He whispered, "That's Elle Lovett, that is. You know about 'er, right?"

'L.' _Lovett? _thought the man stupidly. His drink was causing him to lose focus. _I thought her name started with an E . . ._

"Yeah," grunted the man. "I know about her."

"Shame where she's ended up, ain't it?" said the old man.

"Shame indeed," he agreed.

Finally, the dreadful song came to a close, and for the first time that night, her eyes locked with his. A surprised look crossed her face, but it quickly turned back to the same blank slate. She turned away from him without an sign of acknowledgment, and the man could not help but feel a little stung. He downed the last of his drink, slumped off his barstool, and staggered out the door. The frosty air made him shiver, and he stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. The snow was falling thickly around him, catching onto his hair and clothes and causing him to slip against the sidewalk. Luckily, he managed to grab the hood of his car before he fell onto his backside. Once he was righted again, he took a look around. The world was hazy and wobbly. He knew could not drive home tonight. He would have to walk.

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder and whirled around. There, standing in front of him, in all her glassy-eyed, dull clothes, boring hair glory, was Elle Lovett. Or, as he and few other people knew her as, Nellie Yorke.

"Sweeney," she breathed. She didn't quite know what to say. "What . . . How have you been?"

Sweeney narrowed his eyes at her. She was beginning to swim out of focus, and he was trying to see her clearly, but apparently she took his facial expression the wrong way.

"Er, right." She fiddled with her gloves nervously. "How about . . . how about I give you a ride home? You look like you need one."

"I don' . . ." he struggled to remember what words to say. "I don' needa ride . . ." But he knew she was right, so he reluctantly reached into his coat pocket and thrust her his keys.

"There's a good boy." She offered him a familiar smile, but it faltered quickly. She opened the side door for him and guided him in, then rounded the car to take her seat in the front.

"You . . . you were . . ." He paused, then started to speak again, but Nellie put a hand up to stop him. "You don't have to lie. I know I was dreadful," she said.

"I was gonna say that." He rubbed one side of his face wearily.

Nellie's face fell. "Oh. Well, thank you for your honesty."

They drove in silence for a while, until finally Nellie said, "Was I really that bad?"

"Fuck, Nellie, you were terrible," Sweeney said bluntly. He lay his head back against the headrest. Nellie snorted, then smiled.

"Yeah, I guess I was." She looked over at her childhood friend sadly. How did things end up like this? "I really fucked myself up, didn't I?" she asked, her eyes round with self-pity.

"What? No . . ." Sweeney pulled his head back up so he was staring at her straight on. "No, Nellie, things just didn't work out as planned."

She bit her lower lip as her eyes glistened with tears he knew she would never shed. Nellie did not cry in public. It took him a moment to realize she was not looking at the road.

"Nell – "

But it was too late. He saw the lights of the car coming straight for them and heard the sharp, long beeping of the horn. He did not, however, the skidding sound of the wheels, or of Nellie's panic-stricken face as she tried to swerve vainly out of the way.

There was a crunching sound, and he drowned in blackness.


	2. Are You A Hypnotist?

**A/N: So, I wanted to make this fanfic M rated, but I know it's not quite there yet. However, I don't really know how explicit I can make it so I'm going to bump it down for a while . . . until it gets to that point. Which it might never. Who knows? **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

_What is this? _

_Are you some kind of hypnotist??_

_Waving your powers around _

_the sun eclipse behind the cloud..._

_~Are You A Hypnotist?, The Flaming Lips_

_London, June. 1965_

"Ready? Okay. A-one, a-two, a-one, two, th– "

"Wait, wait, wait! Stop, stop it," cried Benjamin Barker, waving his hands frantically over his head, letting his guitar swing loosely from his body. Eleanor Yorke watched the instrument for a couple of seconds, concerned for its safety, before turning her eyes to Ben.

"_What?_" she huffed.

"I just don't think this is our best song," said Ben. He had put his hands back on his guitar, which settled some of Nellie's nerves.

"Yes, that's why we're practicing it." She turned back to her keyboard and fiddled with the volume, giving Benjamin a view of her back. He stared at her bright yellow mod skirt, dangerously short, the orange and green circles giving him a headache. Nellie looked over her shoulder, and a couple of brown, curly tresses moved lazily across her back.

"What are you looking at?" she snapped accusingly. Ben blushed a deep red, but retorted sardonically, "Not your fat ass, if that's what you're thinking."

"Good," said Nellie, turning back around.

Ben was aware that if he had said that to any other girl, it would have earned him a slap. Or a knee in the crotch. But he had known Nellie for half his life, and this was not the first nor the last of those types of comments. Nellie rarely got offended, and the only way Ben could tell if he hurt her feelings was if she started twisting her clothing. Sleeves, hems of shirts, hems of ridiculously short skirts . . .

He shook his head. Today had been odd. First, he had gotten up and his mother started talking to him about going to college and whatnot. _College!_ That word hadn't even existed in his vocabulary until that morning.

"Mum," he had said groggily to her. "I'm pretty sure it's a bit late to apply. Graduation's in a week."

"You could still enter in next fall!" she had replied. He had grunted a noncommital reply and had fallen back into his sheets.

When he went to school that morning, everyone was staring at him. _Everyone._ This was not an exaggeration . . . maybe. Everyone's eyes seemed to be accusing him of something, or asking him questions to which he did not know the answer. _What are you going to do with the rest of your life? _some cried out. _What's the point of living if you're not going to make yourself worthwhile? _another questioned. He did not have an answer for any of them.

He'd asked Nellie during lunch what she was going to do once she got out of highschool, but her reply had been less than helpful.

"I'm going to be a rock star, of course." As if it were obvious.

"But what if you don't become one?" he'd asked.

She'd given him such a incredulous look that it was as if he'd just told her she was born a man. "I'm going to be a rock star," she'd repeated. "And become famous, even in America! Like the Beatles."

She'd seemed so sure that Ben hadn't dared refute her. _But what am I to do?_ he'd asked himself dejectedly. _Work some boring job, like some boring stiff? _He did not think he could play music forever. He was not so exceptionally talented.

And suddenly, for no apparent reason, he was looking at Nellie in such a way! Nellie, for whom he never felt anything towards. Maybe it was just hormones. Yes, hormones. He'll feel normal again in a day or two.

"Are ready or not?" snapped Nellie impatiently, bringing him back from his reverie.

"Sorry," he mumbled. Nellie's face fell, and she felt bad for being short with him. "Ah, I'm sorry, love," she said apologetically. "Just impatient, is all. Hey, do you think we could book a gig somewhere?"

That was no surprise. Nellie was always impatient for things. And as for a gig, Ben felt like grumbling, _What sort of shit place would want us to play a gig for them?_ Instead he said, "Where?"

"I don't know. Anywhere. Wouldn't that just be outta sight? I mean, think about it, if we were to play somewhere public, we'd be huge! Everywhere!" She grinned hugely, but her enthusiasm did not reach Ben. He could feel her chatty nature coming up, and before she could say another word, he interrupted.

"Yes," he grunted. "Quite a lot of out of sightness will take place, I'm sure."

Nellie pouted and was about to say something before they heard a knock at the door.

"Come in," called Ben. It was most likely his mother, telling them to keep quiet. They had tried to soundproof the room with egg cartons, but it wasn't having as much as the desired effect.

Sure enough, Mrs. Barker poked her head around the door and into the small guest room. Her long brown hair was pulled back with a bandanna, leaving her face, for once, free of flyaway hairs.

"Hello, loves," she said, grinning broadly. "How goes the practicing? You sound totally boss!" Ben rolled his eyes. He hated when his mother used slang. "Anyway, I was just popping in to tell you that it's getting quite late. I'm sure your mother will be wanting you home soon, dear."

"Yes, Mrs. Barker," said Nellie. She and Ben shared a glance. They both knew Nellie's mother didn't care one bit where she was, or what she was doing. "Thank you."

His mother smiled once more, then ducked her head back into the living room of their apartment.

Nellie began packing up her things. "I guess it is getting late . . ." She sounded dejected, and Ben wasn't sure whether it was because she was sad to leave him, or because she wanted to keep practicing and pave her way to stardom. Either way, Ben nodded, reflecting her dejectedness.

"Oh, and Ben," she said, turning around. She had already started walking out the door and was now facing back towards him. "Don't think I was kidding about that gig. I'll find one." She offered him a wink, and she was out the door.

**

* * *

  
**

The next day at school, Ben was sitting with Nellie at the lunch table, each poking their own lunches warily with their forks. They usually sat alone, though sometimes their sometimes-friends would come and sit with them to discuss classes and the like. But they mostly sat alone.

"What do you think it tastes like?" asked Nellie, giving her plastic-looking macaroni and cheese and rather rough fork. The fork punctured the sticky mess, and when she lifted it, the entire clump of macaroni and cheese rose with it. She scrunched up her nose and dropped the mess back onto the plate. Ben noticed that her hair was up in a messy bun, a bright blue headband pushed across the top of her head. Her green plastic hoop earrings swung excitedly each time her head moved the slightest bit.

"I don't know," said Ben, staring at her earrings. They were hypnotizing, making him think unwanted thoughts. He looked away quickly. "Toxic waste, maybe." Nellie snorted in agreement.

"Hello, beautiful," came a voice from in front of them. They looked up at the same time to see standing before him, in all his disturbing and disgusting glory, James Turpin. Behind him was trailing his beloved follower, Riley Bamford. Ben noticed that he was looking a bit more mouse-ish than normal today, and made a mental note to tell Nellie about it. It would probably make her laugh. "How would you like to take a ride in my new car?" Turpin wiggled his eyebrows lasciviously, obviously not caring that Ben was sitting right next to her.

"Go fuck yourself, Turpin," replied Nellie nonchalantly as she took a sip out of her juice carton. "Or find some other whore to shag." Ben's first instinct, after gaping wide-mouthed at her reply, was to point out that by saying '_other_ whore' implied that she, herself, was also a whore. He decided not to think to much on it.

Obviously affronted, Turpin spluttered some incoherent reply, then stalked off, Bamford tottering obediently behind him.

"That was beautiful, Nellie."

"Yes well, I do try. Are you going to finish that?" She pointed at the bread roll that was sitting on his plate. Without waiting for a reply, she snatched it and stuffed it into her mouth without another word. Sometimes he wondered if she knew how to be a lady, or even a polite human being, for that matter.

"You're welcome," he mumbled. "So why is that slimy bastard so obsessed with you? That was, what, the seventh time he's come onto you?"

"He's not obsessed with _me_. He's obsessed with sex. And girls. But predominately sex. Honestly, I don't think he'd object much to a man as long as it came with sex. Or inanimate objects, for that matter . . ." She looked thoughtfully out the window, not seeing Ben's disgusted expression.

"Thank you, for that lovely mental image."

"No problem. I suppose he's running out of girls to deflower, though." She stabbed her fork into her macaroni and cheese and was now attempting to cut it in half with a knife. It did not seem to be working. Ben wondered, unintentionally, about Nellie's . . . deflower-ization. Was she still completely innocent? They usually shared everything with each other, but this was the sort of thing you usually kept to yourself. And he was pretty sure girls were pretty sensitive on that subject, and did not like to share it. Or brag about it, as most boys seemed to do . . .

Now that his mind was on that subject, he pondered his own virginity. Was he incredibly lame, being a senior in highschool and still yet to be laid? He looked around at his male counterparts. Most did not seem like him. They seemed confident and sure of themselves. Surely that was a product of sleeping with a girl, wasn't it? Unlike him, scrawny and self-conscious. He put a hand to his cheek. But he wasn't bad-looking, was he? No, he was sure he had some sort of boyish charm. He could only hope that when he grew up he would develop more manly features. Like a beard . . .

"Hey," said Nellie, waving a hand in front of his face to get his attention. "Exams start in a couple of days, you know."

"Yes," replied Ben. He hadn't really been thinking about exams. They seemed like another trivial highschool thing that would not matter at all once he was out on his own, with no life direction, and no manly confidence to get him places.

"Right, so, we should study sometime for them. Like we did for midterms."

Ben nodded. "Sounds good."

"Excellent," said Nellie, beaming at him. "I'll come by 'round five."

As if she needed to tell him. She already practically lived at his house. She only left when Ben's mother kicked her out.

Ben reached down for his bread roll, then, realizing Nellie had just previously stuffed it into her house, groaned simultaneously with his stomach.


	3. Air Conditions

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except for Davey's Pub and Mrs. Polski. And if Tragic Love is a real song name, I apologize. But then again it's not the same song, so do I have to apologize? Whatever, just keep reading. :)**

_Come on, where are you?_

_Why do you tease me?_

_Why do you tease me?_

_Come on, where are you?_

~ _Air Conditions, Q And Not U_

The only classes Nellie and Ben had together were history and chemistry, so they decided to start with chemistry. They were both sitting on Ben's bed in his tiny bedroom. The sun streamed in through the windows, making the room feel warmer than usual.

And Ben _really_ didn't need to be feeling any warmer.

"Alright, let's try another one," said Ben. He was holding his book up to his face, partly so Nellie couldn't see the answers, and partly so he couldn't see Nellie's ensemble. She was wearing a v-neck blouse and a short (shorter than should be considered decent, Ben thought) powder blue skirt. "Who said that electrons in the same orbitals had to have opposite spins?"

"Hmm." Nellie tapped her pencil her cheek. "Hund?"

"No," said Ben. He did not lower his book. "It was Pauli. Hund said each orbital had to have one electron before any could have two."

"Bugger," cursed Nellie. "Science is so pointless. Who cares about these old stiffs anyway?"

"Maybe because they actually did something important," muttered Ben under his breath. _Unlike me,_ he thought to himself. _I'll never be remembered in history. _

"Hellooooo?" called Nellie, pushing the book out of Ben's face and disrupting his thoughts. "Did you fall asleep back there, or what?"

"Sorry," mumbled Ben. He averted his gaze from her, but not before catching another glimpse of her. She had her hair tied back and piled carelessly on the top of her head, giving her the look of a royal princess with a miniskirt.

"What is the matter with you?" asked Nellie. Ben reluctantly met her curious gaze. "It's like you're on some bloody other planet. Is everything alright?"

"Well . . ." Ben fiddled with the pages of his textbook before blurting out, "Are you a virgin?"

Nellie's mouth fell open in shock. "Am I . . . am I a what?" Ben didn't want to repeat the word, so he just continued staring at her. Nellie looked down at her lap. "That's none of your business."

"So you aren't?"

"That's not what I said!"

"Well it's pretty obvious that you aren't one, else you would have just said no." Ben was fuming now, which surprised him. He could not understand why he was reacting this way.

"What is your problem?" she cried. "So what if I'm not, and so what if I am? Why do you care, either way? It's not like I'm your bloody girlfriend, Ben."

This shut up Ben right away. He could not think of a retort, and didn't want to reveal what feelings he may be harboring towards her. He looked away from Nellie's face, which was growing red with embarrassment and anger, and mumbled a dejected, "You're right. I'm sorry."

Nellie let out a gust of air and picked up the chemistry book from beside Ben. "No matter. Let's just get on with this torture."

The two continued to throw questions back and forth. Nellie barely got any right, while Ben didn't miss an answer, even though he was only half paying attention. His thoughts were still focused on Nellie's answer to his question, which he had taken as confirmation that she was indeed not a virgin. This troubled him. Who had she done it with? Why hadn't she told him? Was it some secret person she met for one time and hasn't spoken to since? Or worse – were they sending letters to each other in secret, right under his nose?

The possibilities were endless, and he only hurt himself by worrying. Still, he couldn't help it. Each time he shot a glance at Nellie, something foreign and strange moved inside him, threatening to eat him alive. At times he found himself unable to form coherent thoughts, too shaken by the strange feelings emanating from within.

She was a poison, but he wanted all of her.

--

The next day in chemistry class, Ben's teacher Mrs. Polski pulled him off to the side.

"Ben, are you planning on going to college?" asked the tall, graying hair woman.

Ben shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Er, no, not really."

Mrs. Polski frowned. "Really. It's a shame to see such brilliance wasted. You really are smart, Ben. Why don't you want to go to college? You could do great things."

"I just don't know what I want to do," answered Ben.

"Yes well, I really want you to look at this college," said Mrs. Polski, shoving some papers and a brochures into Ben's hands. He barely glanced at the title before tossing it into the trash can once Mrs. Polski's back was turned. _Oxford._ He scoffed. Did she really think he could make it into _Oxford_? The idea was laughable.

"What did she want?" asked Nellie, once they met up again in the hallway.

"Nothing," mumbled Ben. "Just asked me a question."

"Well, what question?" pressed Nellie. It was really annoying, actually, the way she couldn't drop something. Ben didn't answer her, hoping his silence would be a giveaway that he didn't feel like pursuing the subject. Fortunately, Nellie took the hint. Instead, she started rummaging through her bag with a mischievous expression.

"What are you looking for?" asked Ben, his curiosity piqued.

"I was going to wait until lunch to show you this, so we could discuss it more, but I think you're in need of some cheering up. So – oh bloody hell, where did I put that thing – Aha!" Nellie pulled out a colorfully printed flyer and handed it to Ben, who took it warily and read the text out loud.

"Entertainment needed at Davey's Pub. June 26th. Auditions this Friday. Will pay money . . . A pub? Seriously? You want us to play at a pub? Why would a pub hire entertainment, anyway?"

"Jesus, Ben, you really are dense. Don't you know that Davey's Pub's basement is the most popular place for dance parties?" Nellie sighed loudly, disappointed in Ben's lack of social knowledge.

"Oh," said Ben. "And they were just handing out flyers?"

Nellie turned pink and smiled sheepishly. "Well, no. This was posted inside the pub. I took it, you know, to lower the competition."

"Of course you did," sighed Ben. But the thought of playing in front of a crowd of people stirred some excitement inside him.

--

Friday came too quickly, and the initial excitement he felt in his belly had now turned into nausea. How did they think they could actually perform for an audience? They were embarrassing themselves by even showing up to the audition.

There were only two other bands there, and both of them looked much older and more mature than Nellie and Ben. The duo exchanged nervous glances, and listened to the two bands perform before them.

The first band might have been good, if Ben could have heard anything besides the lead singer's voice. The second was better, but the drummer couldn't keep a beat, and it through the whole band out of whack.

Feeling somewhat more confident, Ben took his place on the little platform they called a stage. He held his guitar with sweaty fingers and waited for Nellie to compose herself. Finally, she gave him a cue, and the two proceeded to stream notes from their respective instruments.

The song was called 'Tragic Love', and its most prominent feature was Nellie's extended keyboard solo, with Ben jamming out power chords. He could vaguely hear Nellie's lyrics soaring above everything, her soft melodic voice wrapping itself around his mind. He never really heard what she saying, but he caught slight tidbits. Something about a one-sided love, where one party abused the other with their feelings. Ben's heart leaped up into his chest as he wondered if Nellie's song was about him. Could she see right through him? Was he so obvious?

They concluded their song with one loud chord and were greeted with quiet applause. Ben didn't know if this was because they were bad or because there were only about ten other people in the room. Nellie grinned widely and took a bow, while Ben ducked his head in nervous thanks, the scuttled off the stage.

"Thanks again, everyone," said Davey, the manager of the pub. "I'll get back to you all with the results. Basically, if you don't get called by the end of tomorrow, we didn't pick you. Tough love, guys." He walked back to his office with out another word, and the three bands made their way out of the pub, saying a few 'good jobs' before going their own separate ways.

**A/N: Sorry for the delay. Please comment! I love reading reviews, especially if they give a lot of advice. **


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